She settled on the bench, smoothing her skirts, and opened the music that had been left ready on the stand. It was a song she knew well, simple enough to play without thought, leaving room for her voice to carry the melody. Her fingers flexed once above the keys.
Before she could begin, a shadow fell across the edge of the instrument.
“Allow me,” Miles said quietly, his hand already reaching to steady the stack of pages.
Her heart gave a foolish leap. He stood so near she could have counted the flecks of darker brown in his eyes if she dared look at him directly. He had removed his coat and waistcoat, as most of the gentlemen had, and the lines of his shirt and cravat sat with their usual, irritating precision upon shoulders that suddenly seemed much too broad for her peace of mind.
“That is not necessary,” she murmured, keeping her gaze on the music. “I am perfectly capable of turning my own pages.”
“I know,” he replied, taking hold of the first sheet anyway. “But I have been trying to speak to you all day, and this is the only position no one will think to question.”
The murmur of conversation behind them shifted. Jillian could feel eyes turning, the subtle change in attention when any small novelty presented itself. A gentleman volunteering to stand at a lady’s shoulder was hardly unprecedented, but in this particular house, involving this particular gentleman and this particular lady, it was bound to cause interest.
She lowered her voice. “You have chosen a very conspicuous way of being unremarkable.”
“You are about to drown me out with music,” he said. “Play.”
She shot him one last reproachful glance, then set her fingers to the keys. The first chords vibrated pleasantly through her hands, the notes familiar, anchoring. Her voice followed, steady at first, gaining confidence as the melody carried her along. For several blessed measures she could pretend there was no one in the room but herself and the instrument.
When the first page came to an end, Miles turned it with careful timing, his fingers moving close enough to brush the back of her hand. He did not, but she felt the awareness all the same.
“I overheard your exchange in the morning room with the Hartingtons. And Beatrice,” he mused.
“It was not meant for your ears,” Jillian said quickly, he face flaming with heated embarrassment.
“I’m aware. Rest assured that my reasons for bringing it up are to both our benefit, I think….That remark you made in the morning room,” he said softly during a brief interlude between verses, his eyes on the notes, his mouth close enough for her to feel the words against her ear, “about having no expectations where I am concerned. Was that for their benefit, or mine?”
She nearly struck a wrong chord. “Must we do this now?” she hissed, keeping her expression serenely composed for the benefit of the room.
“I am attempting,” he said, “to warn you that they are not merely offended—Mrs. Hartington and her daughter. They are angry. And they may well be vengeful. I saw them after you left.”
“I gathered as much from their conversation,” she said, her hands moving on their own. The music rose, filling the space between them for a moment. When the line ended and she had two beats to breathe, she added in a low, rapid whisper, “They are displeased. They will survive it. They can hardly duel me at dawn.”
“No,” he said, with grim amusement, “but they can make mischief. They will look for ways to put you, and us, in difficult positions. To embarrass you, Lady Jillian, specifically. And whatever our past disagreements, I would not have you publicly humiliated.”
“It will not come to that,” she insisted softly.
His expression remained neutral as he shifted the sheet music before her. “If I can see it, others will as well. I would prefer not to give them material.”
“And yet here you stand,” she said. “At my elbow. In front of everyone.”
“I told you,” he murmured. “This was the only moment I could find to war you that would provide witness enough to satisfy others of its innocence and privacy enough for speech.”
His tone carried a strained honesty that prickled at her defenses. He had not come to bask in attention, or to create a tableau for the gossips. He had come because he was worried. About her.
The realization unsettled her in ways the song’s high notes never could.
She reached the final verse. Her voice softened, the melody dropping to something quieter, more intimate. The room hushed, as rooms do when they realize they are being offered something genuine rather than merely competent. Jillian felt the words pass through her, out into the expectant air, and she knew without looking that Miles was watching her hands, the curve of her shoulders, the way she leaned into the instrument.
He turned the last page just as she needed it, and for an instant their fingers did touch.
It was nothing. It was everything. It was a whisper of what she had felt in York when his hands had been everywhere and nowhere all at once, reverent and sure. Her heart gave a painful lurch at the memory, and the final chord rang out a fraction warmer than she had intended.
Silence held for a breath.
Then the room erupted in polite applause.
Jillian lifted her hands from the keys, her composure intact by the thinnest of threads. She stood and curtsied, feeling color rise in her cheeks as several guests voiced flattering comments and requests for more. As she stepped away from the bench, she heard the whispers ride in on the wake of the applause.
